


For my prayer has always been love

by it_was_so_human



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 00:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/pseuds/it_was_so_human
Summary: It was the most convenient marriage of convenience possible.(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter just a little however was admittedly a touch inconvenient.)





	For my prayer has always been love

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Reference to past assault

_**London, England 1822** _

This was hardly what Lady Sansa expected from her life.

Well, perhaps the marrying a duke part wasn’t far off—but she truly never expected for the duke in question to be her Father’s heir. The exceptionally poor distant cousin.

But it has been many years since the dreams and aspirations of her mother and governess felt like anything but fairytales.

It was twelve years since her parents died and eight since her brother Robb.

And just over a year since the unbearable loss of Bran after a long illness. It wasn’t unexpected, he was so young and so prone to infection ever since his fall. But the pain still remained scratching and raw.

And the Starks, once a proud home, now without sons. And an estate left in tatters without proper stewardship for the past decade, the land and houses on it in shambles.

The cousin was inheriting an old and great title yet somehow more penniless and debt ridden than before.

The Stark coffers were  _dry_. 

And the only money to the family name tied up in an exceedingly comfortable dowry set for Sansa since birth.

And Jon Snow would have to marry for a dowry. 

His lover, a wealthy widow he first met as and officer on the continent, a known great beauty with silver hair, was unable or unwilling to marry a penniless man. Newly titled though he may be.

What a pity for the new Duke of Winterfell, Lord Stark. 

(Would he return to her? His lover? After securing his wife’s funds?)

And Sansa was conveniently there, the Stark daughter fostered by her aunt and her second husband. Once a diamond of the first water, Sansa had been ruined far too much to make any respectable man’s head turn.

(And her remaining guardian at best unconcerned, at worst complicit in her fall.)

The gossips didn’t care for the truth, found enough wrong doing on her end to cast her aside. Many years later and lips still curled at Sansa’s name.

(But Jon Snow didn’t care, didn’t and wouldn’t ask about Ramsey Bolton.)

And since her aunt’s death, the murmured disapproval among the governors of the Vale Estate regarding her as underfoot grew. Increasingly raising eyebrows at her uncle’s  _fondness_  for her.

It was a neat and tidy solution. She was almost permanently on the shelf and now she would be the new Lord Stark’s bride.

The most convenient marriage of convenience possible.

(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter  _just a little_  however was admittedly a  _touch_  inconvenient.)

He had kissed her hand after formally asking her to marry him. Never mind that his man of business and her Uncle had long drawn out contracts and decided on terms.

It was a kind gesture. As if he valued her opinion.

And he gave her such a hesitant smile after asking. One that felt so shy yet sweet that she couldn’t help but share a small one in return.

(And it was the first time she felt that unexpected, unpleasant, unnecessary,  _wondrous_  fluttering.)

((She didn’t think she could feel those type of things. That she could not only be comfortable with a man’s touch… but almost enjoy it.))

That was before she felt the disdain in eyes, his smile turned mocking.

“I am so  _pleased_  by your acceptance, Princess Sansa. To have a betrothed so above reproach is the highest honor.”

Oh.

She would not take his words personally though. His use of an old childhood taunt. 

She was used to it by now. What man would wish to marry her?

And he was reportedly a man of good character. War-hardened perhaps, but good.

((And he would free her from her Uncle whose gaze and hands lingered too long and was decidedly not good.))

She’d known Jon as a girl. From afar at least. Best friends with Robb, he summered at their estate. He was a serious but good young man.

(But oh god, she wasn’t the kindest to him growing up. How can she ask he be kind enough to forgive her adolescent arrogance?)

He served with her brother’s troop in the Peninsular Wars. Declared a war hero. And left with scars to tell the tale.

And thought to be a bastard until an enterprising solicited discovered his parents’ marriage license.

And he had broad strong shoulders and kind dark eyes.

If all this were in a salacious novel she was found reading as a girl, Aunt Lisa would have had her head. (Would have again called her whore.)

But this was no work of fiction.

This was her life.

(Maybe six years ago she would find him too rough, but now she only hoped his roughness would not be turned on her.)

She was stripped of her hope and innocence long ago, during her first season. Too much scandal plagued her since.

She would not be marrying a proper gentleman.

She wouldn’t be courted. Or loved.

Or even  _liked_.

A duke’s daughter that circumstances brought down  _down_. She felt weighted and tired and hadn’t _dared to hope_.

But she would have the security of a marriage. Protection was more than a fatherless girl could hope for.

And she would be grateful. She would make herself grateful.

She would be a good wife.

(And then she might still be able to have a family yet. That was the one dream she still held fast.)

—-

Last year he had an existence he could manage, a promotion and good posting, a comfortable lover, only occasional nightmares, and an understanding of his place in the world.

He wasn’t a great honorable man, but he was a good enough. He could live with himself. 

He wasn’t a man who held disdain for a bride and title that was never meant to be his.

He wasn’t the sort go lash out at a lady. Dangle the swapping of fortunes in front of an unlucky girl. 

No one had ever claimed Jon to be cruel. But that was before years of war and before he was then named an heir to a crumbling estate.

And told marriage to save it and all those dependent on its livelihood was his duty.

Sansa Stark was convenient. 

But a duke’s daughter wasn’t meant for the likes of him.

He was an inconsequential orphan boy who was able to scrape the barest of army commissions.

He’d grown up rough. No Eton for him. He was a soldier–but a good one.

But perhaps ruined daughters could marry rough.

Ruined daughters who once smirked at seemingly bastard sons.

Perhaps they married dukes so unrefined and scarred and poor that even the most desperate of society misses looked away in horror.

Sansa and him didn’t belong together.

She held herself absolutely…  _regally_.

He knew it before, but it was only reinforced when he took her hand that day.

Her silly pampered softness in his rough work hardened hands.

And he left that stupid kiss on them.

Pressed his lips against her hand. He could  _kick_  himself. 

What had come over him? He had meant to ask her in person as a sign of good will.

Instead he proved himself uncouth in his lack of grace at playing a gallant gentleman. He knew his awkward fumbling was sloppy.

Wasn’t at all refined

And he found himself… lay the blame on  _h_ er. Wanted her to feel uncomfortable too. Turned his smile almost mocking to cover up his embarrassment.

Marrying to save an estate that was barely his in anything but name? That was bad enough.

And it had ruffled unbearably to think that Lady Sansa Stark was his attended bride.

But if he was honest, he was not truly angry. He was tired.

Battle weary.

(Didn’t want a marriage that would be a fight too.)

And he had seen it in her eyes too. A sorry kinship of sorts.

Was this broken lady the once beloved daughter of Ned and Caitlyn Stark?

She looked so humbled and he had wanted nothing more than to see a haughty look return to her eyes.

Perhaps that’s why he made a fool of himself.

(Or perhaps the truth was he just wanted to feel her smooth porcelain skin on his lips.)

But he had quickly remembered it would do well to not forget she was a pampered princess.

One with a soft smile they could make a man’s heart race. (Before it flickered into a pained grimace. One that seemed all too commonplace on her.)

_It was badly done of him._

She was a beauty. A true lady in ever sense. Her voice smooth and melodic. And so very accomplished. And thoughtful. Had nursed her brother until his last breath. Had tried her best to care for dependents of the Stark estate with her small allowance.

And she was going to be his wife.

She would be Lady Stark and perhaps one day the mother of his children.

 _Children!_ He’d never planned  _those_.

But the idea of little red headed babes he found wasn’t completely objectionable.

—

Jon couldn’t miss the smirks and loud snickers Baratheon and his friends sent his way at the club last night. Spoke loudly of his engagement followed by raucous laughter and pitying glances.

_The Soiled Heiress._

And Sansa has been on the receiving end of those smirks since her first season.

Had been on the receiving end of scorn she was never raised to expect. Would never had to expect if her father or brother had lived, if her guardians were worthy of the name.

She would never have been left so vulnerable. Would have had her honor defended at sunrise.

Scorn when what she deserved was…  _regard_.

A young lady deserved that much at least.

He may prove to be a terrible husband, but he didn’t want her to feel that he thought lowly of her.

(It was himself who was low  _low_.)

So when he called on her, he brought flowers. The pretty hot house variety were a luxury he could scarcely afford but he wanted her to have something.

She liked pretty things as a girl and though her austere dresses no longer reflected such, he imagined it would still be the case.

(Perhaps so many blooms looked far too ostentatious?)

But when he presented them to her, her shock turned into unmistakable pleasure.

And the way her eyes lit up made him feel lighter inside than he had in ages.

“Thank you Lord Stark. They’re  _beautiful_ … I haven’t received flowers in si-…” her cheeks burned and he felt an anger on her behalf. “I don’t receive many bouquets.”

And he didn’t care if he embarrassed himself too much, gave up too many of his cards, left his pieces on the board vulnerable to attack.

His voice felt hoarse.

“Then I vow that you will receive so many bouquets you’ll run out of vases. Out of  _tables_.”

—

He seemed so earnest. Not a fanciful declaration of a suiter. There was no artifice there.

And she felt so grateful. Not the feigned variety of a good wife.

But a genuine rush of gratefulness that warmed her inside.

She could feel bitter that something so simple made her eyes sheen, but she honestly only felt that  _fluttering_  again.

And she didn’t want to ward it off just yet.

It felt good.

“There are a great deal of tables in Winterfell, Lord Stark,” she managed.

She took his hand in hers in thanks… his warm calloused palm… and what she felt like in that moment…

“I look forward to the challenge, Lady Sansa.” 

The feeling? It could be described as  _hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> (Forgive me, I am ridiculously out of practice?!?)


End file.
